I didn’t quite remember any kung-fu roosters until Gabriel sang the theme song - but those plots of my physical brain untilled since youth began to turn, and that knowledge rushed upon me. I tasted forbidden “sugar cereals” on my tongue as I recalled his travails against the despotic General Tso, who floated from here to there on a kind of floating throne which was also an oven. He believed (for whatever reason) that Kung-Foo Rooster’s dedication to the martial arts would create the most tender chicken the world had ever known, and put his considerable personal fortune toward discerning the truth of the matter. There were ninjas all in white with cleavers and chef hats in addition to a group of seven interchangeable hatchling sidekicks called, collectively, “The Chix.”
Where I grew up, it came on after Star Blazers and before The Great Space Coaster.
As for what occurs in the first panel, I can’t imagine how counterproductive those MPAA clips before movies have proven to be. It may be that you have not yet been insulted by one of these, but the only way to one-hundred percent guarantee that you will be harangued thus for piratical acts is to enter a theater and see movies legally.
I’ve never done it, and I don’t mean that to be an emblem of morality - I tend to watch movies with their special features intact, pressed to convenient Digital Versatile Discs. But with a little help from his friends, and by friends I mean anonymous torrent peers, he’s sitting on maybe an iPod’s worth of purloined cinematic media - and I’m not talking about the mini, or heaven help us the shuffle. And all because the last time he managed to fit a first-run theatrical release into his life, they chastised him for things he hadn’t done - might never have done - while simultaneously directing him to an Aladdin’s Cave of jewelled fruits and ambulatory carpets.
When I was digging around at their site this morning, I found an application at Respect Copyrights Dot Org that made me shudder for today’s young dorks. Understand that when I was in their position, computers were still very much tools of Satan. This was when you could still refer to them as “newfangled.” I can recall my mother hesitantly typing a letter of some kind on our Amiga 500, and each errant beep produced by the machine registered in her body like raw voltage. The idea of her utilizing a program like their Parent File Scan - an application that finds all media on your machine and flags it, even legitimate media you own - is so preposterous as to be ridiculous and perhaps even absurd. At that time, she would no sooner use a computer than she would have placed her hand within a rent and steaming human abdomen. I think the idea is that she doesn’t really know what’s in there, in either case, and she can’t conceive of a way that verifiable knowledge of it could improve her life.
how i long to hear you say